life proceeds in stages. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard my parents say it. “Many,” I suppose, is the answer to the question.
I don’t know if I like the word “stages.” It seems to mundane, too mechanical, too quotidian. I’d rather say that life happens in “epochs” or “eras” or even “ages.”
I don’t really remember leaving childhood behind. Maybe it was when I stopped going to church. I think I left “youth” behind on the day J—e and I broke up. Now I am watching “young adult” give way simply to “adult,” right before my eyes.
There is Christmas music playing all over New York already. And suddenly, as if I had reverted to being ten years old, Christmas feels magical again. The longing-filled verses drift almost visibly through the shops and streets and the little decorations and colors that are popping up everywhere seem not so much reflections of a consumption-oriented world as heartfelt attempts by real, well-intentioned people to transcend it.
That old, special magic seems to be creeping back into the world for me—that sense of the beauty of things, of meaning that runs much deeper than can be excavated, much deeper tham can be exploited by cynicism and jadedness.